Umbriate Press Poetry

I

Lying in the sun his unhealthy flesh enjoys a wide view– symbol of civilization’s embryo, the native language of misery disguised as words.

II

Cordiality as in antiquity: In view of fortune, fighting has ceased to be in war, its feathers ornamented black and dark pearls. After what remains, the picturesque environs of birth and death, also gracious in festival of time, fetching itself tethered to the bone of my longing– waiting for Rabelais to mutter some disgust.

III

Hardly at that time in the center of a huge crowd of strangers, hotels and restaurants: a colossal human anthill. The days preceding the extracted material still operating, continuously developed in order to put people into oblivion and delights: enough to die of happiness as an evil beast, where one well in the unknown hears very discordant cries by being in constant hilarity: the fun neither.